“Tell me.”
She spilled a story then, the words practically tumbling over each other, about visiting Web sites the night before, ones relating to the lost girl found in Sugarfoot’s grave, and then receiving an instant message from somebody with the screen name Gravesitter. Even telling him the tale, she shuddered, and hugged herself with both arms, as though chilled by a harsh wind.
“Whoever this bozo was,” she said, winding it up, “he—or she—said they were ‘glad I was sleeping with you again,’ because up till then, they thought I was frigid!”
Hiding a smile, because it was fine with him if everybody thought Kristy was frigid, Dylan leaned to grab his travel alarm clock and check the time. They were due at the high school gym for the debate between Jim Huntinghorse and Mike Danvers in half an hour.
With a sigh, he sat up, took the liberty of massaging Kristy’s shoulders through the thinning fabric of that old rodeo shirt. Kissed her left ear. “What do you care what people think?” he asked.
She pulled away from him, leaped to her feet, nearly fell over Sam. “It isn’t that, Dylan,” she said, agitated. “I get it that half the town—if not all of it—probably knows we’re—” she paused, reddened “—involved. But don’t you think this particular person’s information was pretty specific? Whoever this ‘Gravesitter’ goon is, they knew we made love last night. How could they be so certain unless—”
That was it. She was still freaked out because of Freida Turlow’s uninvited visit. He stood, slipped his arms around her waist, pulled her close against him. “Nobody was watching us through some secret peephole, Kristy. My truck was parked in your driveway. I came down your front walk tucking in my shirttails and semi-pissed-off. Any passerby could have figured out what we’d been up to. Hell, Logan knew the moment he got a look at you at the cattle sale today.”
Kristy tensed, let out a long breath, rested her forehead against his shoulder. “It was probably some kid who hangs out at the library—”
“One with a crush on you, no doubt,” Dylan said, resting his chin on the top of her head. “Just the same, when we’re done hearing both sides of the political issues and chowing down on Briana’s fried chicken over at the main ranch house, you’d better come back here with Bonnie and me and spend the night. Tomorrow morning, we’ll hit the hardware store, and then I’ll change the locks at your place. How does that sound?”
She looked up at him, eager at first, then doubtful. “Are you sure that’s good for Bonnie? My staying the night, I mean?”
He caught Kristy’s chin in his hand. “Hello?” he joked. “She’s two. This will not scar her psyche, okay?”
“It will if we make as much noise as we did this afternoon,” Kristy answered, her hands moving on his bare chest in a lapel-straightening kind of motion.
He gave her a smacking kiss on the mouth and a light swat on the backside. “We’ll just have to be quiet,” he said. “Now, let’s roll. We’re going to be late.” And being late, when everyone else was already seated, would draw attention, with them coming in together, both walking an inch off the floor.
Dylan saw no need to point that out to Kristy—she was already as jumpy as the famed cat on a hot tin roof.
She got dressed again, after brushing auction dust off her jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt. He put on a fresh shirt, rebuttoned his pants, combed his hair. Pulled on socks and his best boots.
He’d made light of the whole “glad you’re sleeping with Dylan again” thing, mostly for Kristy’s sake, but the more he thought about it, the more it worried him. He’d planned to lease a double-wide the next day, have it hauled out to the ranch and set up as soon as possible, and get started on the barn and the new house.
All well and good, but even if he changed the locks at Kristy’s, there were still all those reporters to worry about, and suppose this Gravesitter freak-job wasn’t just annoying, but flat-out dangerous?
Having Kristy spend the night with him was one thing. But could he expect her to move out of that big Victorian in town and share his life on a long-term basis?
He was crazy about her; he’d come to terms with that much.
In fact, he’d marry her, if she’d have him.
But did he love her? Damned if he knew. He sure as hell felt something for Kristy Madison, and it was powerful. But was it love?
Or was he just caught up in the sex, and the driving need to provide Bonnie with a mother?
Kristy, and any other woman worth her salt, would want more than he had to offer, right at the moment.
Still, the thoughts saddened Dylan as he filled Sam’s dish in the ranch house kitchen, with its sagging floors, outdated appliances and decades of Creed history saturating its very walls. Kristy was still in the bathroom, touching up her makeup with tubes and bottles from her purse.
Probably trying to tone down the orgasm-pink still pulsing in her cheeks.
Dylan smiled at that, went outside to feed Sundance and make sure he had water to last until they got home from Logan’s—it would be late, most likely, when the party broke up. Bonnie would be asleep, and he’d carry her into the house, put her to bed.
And all the while, he’d know Kristy was around. That he could see her just by rounding a corner into another room, that if he called out her name, she’d answer.
That made him feel better.
*
THE HIGH SCHOOL GYM was packed, the bleachers full, folding chairs set up on the tarp-covered basketball court. A podium and two folding chairs stood on the stage, and Jim Huntinghorse sat in one, Mike Danvers in the other.
Logan and Briana had arrived first, with Briana’s boys, and Bonnie fairly leaped off Briana’s lap when she spotted Dylan coming toward her. The toddler bounded into her father’s embrace, small arms outstretched, face shining.
Kristy’s breath caught at the sight.
“Daddy!” Bonnie shrieked, overjoyed. “Daddy!”
Dylan laughed, nuzzled the little girl’s neck until she squealed with delight. People on both sides of the aisle smiled warmly, though a few whispered behind their hands.
Kristy knew what they were saying, of course. Or, at least, the gist of it. Where do you suppose that child’s mother is?…They’re at it again, Dylan and Kristy. That’s what I heard…Some people never learn….
Dylan had turned, Bonnie riding on one hip with both arms clenched around his neck, to beckon to Kristy. She realized she’d been standing alone in the aisle, like some thunderstruck fool, and went to him. Took one of the seats Logan and Briana had saved for them. Tried to ignore the stares she felt coming at her from every direction.
She sold poor Tim Madison right down the river. Her own father! They’ll splash his story all over kingdom come, you wait and see. Movies. Books! Where will it end?
Where, indeed? Kristy wondered.
The mayor of Stillwater Springs, a UPS driver by day, was Julie Danvers’s younger brother, George. He stepped up to the podium, tapped experimentally at the microphone, frowned and cleared his throat.
A genial type, married with three preschool children, George bore a slight physical resemblance to his sister, sharing her fair coloring and blue eyes, but he was chubby and balding. He brought his kids to the library a lot, and was always cordial to Kristy.
“It is my great pleasure,” George began, sounding as if he meant it, “to introduce our two candidates for sheriff.”
Feedback screeched through the aging sound system.
George pulled a face and put his hands over his ears, a gesture Bonnie, seated in Dylan’s lap, immediately mimicked, while the audience chuckled encouragingly.
“We need some new equipment, George!” a man called good-naturedly from the bleachers. “The school board bought those speakers in 1957!”
Everyone laughed, including the youthful mayor. It was said that George was taking college courses online, and hoped to rise to the level of state politics, or even beyond, in due time.
“Well, Fred,” George retorted immediately, “I
can get a special levy on the ballot if that’ll make you happy. Jack your property taxes up a few hundred dollars a year.”
Cheerful boos and hoots rolled toward him in a great wave in response to that, although actually, Stillwater Springs was pretty good about voting for school levies and bonds. It was just that they were still paying for two new buses and a dozen computers.
Once the din settled down, George cleared his throat again and made another attempt at the microphone. “We flipped a coin backstage,” he explained, “and Jim Huntinghorse goes first.”
Mike mugged a little, bringing more laughs, and Jim grinned.
He looked nervous, though—to Kristy, anyway. Leaving his suit jacket draped over the back of his chair, he stood, straightened his tie and stepped up to the mic. Jim had been a rascal as a boy, running with the Creed brothers and getting into just as much trouble as they did. Now, he had a good job managing the local casino for the tribal council.
Logan and Dylan, along with a few others, clapped and called out encouragement.
Jim quirked a grin, glanced at his ex-wife, Katherine, seated prominently in the front row of folding chairs. “Thanks,” he said.
Kristy prided herself on being an informed citizen, clear on the issues before every election, local, state or national, but that night, she couldn’t think of anything but the way Dylan’s strong upper arm felt, pressed against hers. When Bonnie scrambled into her lap, she was moved out of all proportion to good sense.
The little girl planted a wet smooch on Kristy’s cheek before settling down.
Tears sprang to Kristy’s eyes.
She redoubled her efforts to concentrate, but when Jim and Mike had both finished their speeches, she couldn’t recall a thing they’d said.
It was only when Dylan took Bonnie, and they all got up to leave with everyone else, that Kristy spotted the TV cameras clustered at the back of the gym.
“It’s business as usual in Stillwater Springs,” White-teeth was saying into a portable microphone and a lens as they passed. “Even with two separate murder investigations officially under way, folks are interested in local politics.” He smiled broadly, radiating condescension and insincerity. “Small-town America, at its best.”
“Jerk,” Dylan remarked, close to Kristy’s ear, cupping her elbow in his free hand and shuffling her past the newspeople before any of the cameras could turn on her.
“Ms. Madison!” one of the reporters called, as she and Dylan worked their way through the slow-moving crowd. Like a wreck on the freeway, the media presence made folks rubber-neck, thereby causing a clog. “If we could just ask a few questions—”
“Keep going,” Dylan murmured.
Logan, Briana and the boys were somewhere behind them.
Finally, finally, they were outside. Kristy, feeling as though she might smother, gasped for breath.
Bonnie tried to shift from Dylan’s arms to Kristy’s.
He restrained her.
The child shrieked in protest. “Mommeeeeeee!”
Kristy closed her eyes for a fraction of a second, and when she opened them again, Dylan was looking right at her, his expression troubled. Thoughtful.
“Hand her over,” she said, reaching for Bonnie.
Dylan hesitated—that hurt, in a way Kristy wouldn’t have expected—then gave the little girl to her.
Bonnie immediately settled down, deflating against Kristy’s shoulder like a little balloon. “Mommy,” she whispered. “Mommy.”
“Shhh,” Kristy said gently, patting Bonnie’s small back.
They reached Dylan’s truck; he unlocked the doors, secured Bonnie in her car seat, waited politely while Kristy settled herself in front.
In the backseat, Bonnie fussed a little, then fell asleep.
“She’s worn-out,” Kristy said, when Dylan was behind the wheel. “Probably from trying to keep up with Josh and Alec.”
“I suppose,” Dylan agreed, sounding subdued as he checked the rearview mirror and waited for a break in the traffic leaving the gym parking lot.
Kristy realized he’d been looking to see if any reporters were going to follow them, and turned quickly in her seat.
There were lots of cars and pickups, so it was hard to tell. Logan’s rig pulled in directly behind them, almost as if he were running interference.
Nervously, Kristy turned to face forward again, her hands knotted on her blue-jeaned lap.
“Relax,” Dylan said. “The ranch is private property. If the media turns up, Logan and I will run them off with a shotgun.”
It was an unfortunate choice of words, given what had happened between her dad and the still-nameless drifter that long-ago night.
Kristy automatically flinched.
Dylan heaved a sigh. “I’m sorry,” he said.
Kristy drummed up a smile, leaned a little to touch his arm.
Fifteen minutes later, they pulled through the gate at Stillwater Springs Ranch, with a whole trail of cars and trucks behind them. Jim Huntinghorse was right behind Logan and Briana, with Katherine and their young son. Anxiously, Kristy stood on the running board of Dylan’s truck, one hand shading her eyes from the last dazzle of summer sunlight, but she recognized all the other vehicles as those of locals. Not a reporter in sight.
Relieved, Kristy took Dylan’s hand and let him help her down off the running board. Stood by while he got Bonnie out of her car seat.
There were several horses in the corral beside Logan and Briana’s new barn, and Kristy found herself drawn to them. Briana fell into step beside her, as they crossed the yard, linking her arm with Kristy’s.
“Aren’t they beautiful?” Briana asked quietly, when they reached the fence.
Suddenly, Kristy yearned to ride again. “Oh, yes,” she breathed in response. “Yes.”
“Dylan told me about your horse, Sugarfoot,” Briana said, after a few moments had passed. “It must have been a terrible loss, Kristy.”
Kristy swallowed, nodded. She’d vowed, when Sugarfoot was buried, that she’d never ride another horse. At the time, it would have seemed like a betrayal. Now, she understood that she’d lost a lot more than an excellent and faithful friend. She’d lost an important part of herself.
Dylan joined them, a wide-awake Bonnie riding happily on his shoulders. With a grin, he handed the little girl off to Briana and headed inside the barn without a word.
When he came out again, he had a bridle slung over one shoulder, and he was carrying a battered saddle and sheep’s-wool pad. Without once glancing Kristy’s way, even though Bonnie was crowing, “Daddy! Horsie! Ride!” at the top of her tiny lungs, he selected a paint and began fitting it with the riding gear.
Kristy watched, mesmerized by the dusty, familiar grace of the ritual—man-saddling-horse—expecting Dylan to mount up when he was finished.
Instead, he led the horse to the fence.
“Logan says this is a good one,” he told Kristy.
Bonnie tried to squirm out of Briana’s arms, right over the fence.
Briana held her firmly.
“You mean, I—” Kristy stammered.
“Yes,” Dylan said simply.
Kristy hesitated, glanced at Briana. Looked back at Dylan.
Then she climbed up the fence rails, perched herself on top while Dylan eased the horse into position alongside. Kristy shifted to the saddle; something inside her surged and then soared as she took the reins Dylan held up to her.
She hadn’t noticed Logan saddling a second horse, a buckskin gelding, in a corner of the corral. But when Dylan had opened the pasture gate, Logan led the gelding to him. Dylan shoved a foot into the stirrup and hauled himself up with the expert ease of a man all but raised on horseback.
The feeling of freedom made Kristy laugh out loud as she prodded the paint to a trot, then a gallop, then a run. The wind tossed her hair, and the good scents of grass and dirt and horse filled her like light.
Dylan was soon beside her, keeping pace easily. With a grin, he stra
ightened his hat.
There was no need to speak—they might have been joined, one creature, soul-meeting-soul, riding those horses. It was as if they were making love, on some high and intangible plane of the spirit. The exhilaration was like nothing Kristy had ever felt before—it was exultation, it was triumph.
It was being whole again.
The ride ended too soon—there were guests waiting at the main ranch house, after all. Having crossed the wide pasture at a full run, they returned at a walk, for the sake of the horses.
Logan, Briana and Bonnie stood in the same place at the corral gate, along with Jim and the rest of the crew.
Kristy saw them all as a blur of smiles and color.
Friends.
Family.
Kristy dismounted, grinning foolishly, and stood wobbly legged holding the reins. Dylan held out his arms for Bonnie, and Logan handed her up. Then he took the paint from Kristy and led it slowly into the barn.
Kristy watched, her heart full, as Dylan took Bonnie for a brief ride. Perched in front of her dad in the saddle, the child looked transported—almost transfigured.
It’s in her blood, Kristy thought. Just as it’s in mine.
She’d ridden like that, with her own father, from the time she was six months old. In her mind, she felt her dad’s strong arms around her again, heard him laughing with delight. Heard her mother calling in fitful joy, “Tim Madison, you be careful now—Kristy’s just a baby!”
Coming back to the present with a jolt, Kristy sniffled once, aware that Briana was watching her.
Remarkably, Briana said, “I used to ride like that with my dad.”
Kristy sniffled again, smiled. “Me, too,” she said hoarsely. “Me, too.”
Briana sighed happily. “It’s nice to see the good things passed down to a new generation,” she added, looking around at the milling friends and acquaintances. “I’d better get the fried chicken and potato salad out, before there’s a riot.”
“I’ll help,” Kristy said.
Hal Ryder, Stillwater Springs’ longtime veterinarian, nodded a greeting as they approached the front porch. He’d treated Sugarfoot, and all the other animals on the Madison place, while Kristy was growing up, and before the divorce, he and Mrs. Ryder had often played cards with her parents.
Linda Lael Miller Montana Creeds Series Volume 1: Montana Creeds: LoganMontana Creeds: DylanMontana Creeds: Tyler Page 47